James Swallow: Deus Ex: Icarus Effect

“Yes, such a pity about the Icarus.”

“I have others. The vessel was a liability, anyway. It might have been connected to me eventually.”

“Of course.” The appetizers arrived and they ate for a moment before Everett spoke again. “I asked you here, Lucius, because I wanted to discuss the juncture we find ourselves at, without the… the distraction of other voices. We’ve recruited so many people to the group recently and I miss the clarity of our more direct discussions.” He gestured airily. “It’s not just Page and all his ambitions. Our lady friend from China, the scientist…”

“I concur,” said DeBeers. “We have so many endeavors. Sometimes it is difficult to juggle them all.”

Everett nodded. “Exactly. Some of the group forget that the current undertaking is only one of many lines of influence in development. Let’s not forget the work on the HIV cure, the D-project, and the fault-line venture in California…”

“All equally important, I grant you,” he replied. “But the biochip is where our focus should be.”

“And we are on course?”

DeBeers nodded. “Obviously, there was a need for some compartmentalization of events from certain subordinate members of the council. But you can rest assured that the pattern of influence fell more or less exactly where we wanted it to. As always.”

“The United Nations have agreed on the need for a referendum, then?”

He nodded again. “I was informed of that fact just before I left Switzerland. The attempted murder of Taggart was enough to push them over the edge. That, along with our other vectors of influence and the recent decision by Senator Skyler to come around to our way of thinking, brought us the desired result.”

Everett cocked his head. “What happened at the Palais… Did you really intend that to succeed?”

DeBeers allowed himself a smile. “Either way, it would have been win-win, Morgan.”

“I see. That explains your, shall I say, prudence?”

He went on, paraphrasing the report that Jaron Namir had given him in the weeks after the incident in Geneva; although the Tyrants had lost half their agents, they had still been able to complete their mission objectives. The mistake of recruiting Saxon had been erased and Hardesty, while useful, was not irreplaceable. Remarkably, Gunther Hermann had been recovered alive—although severely injured—from the waters of the Rhone by MJ12 operatives. It was a testament to the German’s strength of will that he had survived a bomb blast, but the detonation had rendered him physically crippled and heavily burned. DeBeers was aware that Page had already co-opted Hermann, for extensive reconstructive surgery and induction into a cybernetic mech-augmentation program. Perhaps, in time, he would be ready to be redeployed.

“The fact is,” DeBeers concluded, “the question of the global regulation of human augmentation technology is now unavoidable, and we have positioned ourselves to take full advantage of the situation. The result will be a forgone conclusion.”

“The best kind,” said Everett, saluting him with his glass. “And our larger plans move on with only minor alterations. Excellent.” He paused. “Still. There are issues yet to be resolved. Those children in the Juggernaut Collective, for example.”

DeBeers shook his head. “We’ve dismantled that little gang of data thugs. Those who aren’t dead are on our payroll. And as for their friends in that separatist rabble… We’ll keep them around. Use them for our own purposes.”

“The operative with the attack of conscience, Saxon? And the Kelso woman?”

“They haven’t resurfaced, both figuratively and literally. But then, Lake Geneva is quite deep.”

Everett accepted this and studied his mentor for a long moment. “You’ve yet to mention the hacker. What does he call himself—Janus?”

DeBeers frowned. “Gone. Silent. None of our concern, for the moment.” He drew himself up, dropping the mannerisms of a friend in conversation with his best student, and his behavior became more authoritative. “There are other matters of more importance to attend to. Like the work of Reed and the team from Sarif Industries.”

“Of course, Lucius,” said the other man. “I appreciate the opportunity for… clarity.” He looked up as the waiters returned with the main course, and with a nod he had the server pour a fresh measure of wine into each of their glasses. Everett raised his and smiled. “To the future, then?”

“The future,” said DeBeers, savoring the moment.

Santa Lucia—Guanacaste Province—Costa Rica

The hamlet was a small place a few miles past the outskirts of the main township, little more than a collection of homes and buildings clustered around the road in the lee of greenery and the encroaching edges of the jungle. Aside from the gray discs of satellite antennas and snarls of telephone cables webbing the redbrick buildings together, the scene was as it would have been twenty, maybe even forty years ago. It was basic and unhurried, and a long way off the grid.

The man and the woman who arrived were not locals, and some of the children who played in the street took it upon themselves to follow the pair of them, measuring these blancos and wondering who they were. The big man was an hombre de la maquina like they saw in the action vids, and they were wary of coming too close. The braver of the boys told the others that they heard men like him had chips in their heads that could read your thoughts and arms that could rip apart a car. The woman, she was different, her blond hair pulled back tight in a ponytail, the color turning back to brunette at the roots where the dye job was fading. She wore mirrored sunglasses and a wide-brimmed bush hat that did its best to hide her face from the world.

At the Duarte house, the two new arrivals were greeted with a strange mixture of emotions. The big man was welcomed like a cousin, with a tearful hug from the mother and a sad, knowing nod from the father. Samuel Duarte’s parents both wept a little, but they thanked the big man and brought him inside, the woman following a few steps behind.

The children who asked questions about the couple in the earshot of adults were told to be quiet and speak no more of them. These people were friends, and that was all that mattered. They had come here to be away from the questions of others, and everyone in the village understood that.

Anna sat on the balcony as the sun set and stared out into the green; in the distance the color bled away to a gray-brown haze where the jungle ended in the maws of the mammoth logging camps, in the shadow of the mountainside. One hand she kept balled in a fist, resting on her lap. It was as if she couldn’t remember how to unclench it.

She looked away and found Saxon, offering her a brown bottle of some nondescript local beer.

“Thanks.” She took a long pull. “Are we good?”

He sat next to her, making a face as he pulled on the sutures in his belly. “We’re good. This place is not on anybody’s radar, you can be sure of that. It’s…” He smiled ruefully. “It’s just a barrio rattrap. No one knows who you are down here.” The smile faded. “We’re outta their reach. That’s what you wanted, yeah?”

She nodded. Fleeing from Europe, there had been many places they could have gone to ground, but something dark and potent inside Anna Kelso had driven her to seek sanctuary as far away as she could go. Somewhere off the map, far from cities and the threats of what she saw when she dreamed.

He was watching her. “You’ll be okay here.”

Anna put down the bottle. Something in his tone rang a wrong note. “I will? And what about you?” When he didn’t answer she glared at him. “You’re not going to stay?”